I called Mairk yesterday morning on the family landline to see how the Etna Mustache March Opening Cermonies were progressing. He put me on speakerphone as he hacked off his wispy man growth with a swiss army knife in the bathroom - he seemed hopeful and excited. The Mairkstache - as he so poetically named it - had a lot to live up to. After all, Mairk’s dad got married in jeans and a  ’stache, making the hairlip a family institution.

Mairk is holding it up well. The picture feels a little "out of focus" but I think it’s just the "mustache magic" in the air.

And Moustache March has begun!

   

The Good Old Days

        There is much to be thankful for: our website is officially over a year old, Moustache March is fast approaching, and Noah hasn’t pooped in anything besides a toilet in over 6 weeks. Yes, we’ve survived many losses: our most talented writer has gone AWOL behind the flimsy veil of professorial success, which we all know better as alcoholic shame, social anxiety disorder, and his parents’ CO-OP charge account. Our financier has moved to an Argentinian internet cafe to chase younger, browner men while constantly Skyping Barcelona to keep up international appearances. Our webmaster unglued his hand from his dick and got a job, ruining hopes of the innovations that would launch this site into the same stratosphere as SheMuscle and Nhiaa.org. In fact, our best post of the last six months was written by a kid who used to start drinking at 10:30 am in high school, not exactly what one would call a literary scholar.

       Ever wonder what the porn sees when it watches you? (Back by popular demand)

       Luckily, the rampant homophobia and shameless reminiscence in the comments section have kept Wish We Weren’t Friends happily afloat. From obscure South African racism references to a manual on short-circuiting a woman’s "doorbell," we’ve kept warm these winter months with thoughts of one another’s shortcomings, which are many. Even Samson has managed to make time in between daily  "meetings" in Keene and Plymouth to plug his laptop into the payphone at Bow Mobil and chime in on the fun.
        More to the point, we are quickly approaching our official month long holiday period. I’d like to alert the group to some competition we have on another site. It seems that a seemingly harmless comment from Nate "Tank" Heath several months ago that applauded our moustaches was actually of a condescending tone. It seems this "Tank" character (gay nickname, you fucking douche) has actually managed to have the official Moustache March website. A few weeks ago I received an email in my inbox encouraging me to check out the new "image gallery" and "pick a t-shirt design" as well as enjoy "Facial February." Following the links I arrived here:

Picture on the right look familiar to you? Bad graphic design look familiar to you? Stupid website idea look familiar to you? Clearly-in-the-closet-self-loathing-gay-membership look familiar to you? I say we declare a full on Internet Jihad against these "maggot lipsters" and somehow break their website.

My computer’s about to run out of batteries. Here’s a link to Lohan’s boobs if you haven’t seen them.

A surprisingly handsome group!

    It was a truly glorious Thanksgiving Holiday, filled with all the special treats that only the Upper Valley can provide. Illegal manual labor in White Junction highlighted by multiple trips to the Hairtford Dump with four in the cab of the truck. An alumni soccer game at the West Beverly High Turf Stadium, with Buck Baker scoring a crisp goal past a diving high schooler. Screaming "You’re garbage!" to Dartmouth soccer players  during their heartbreaking defeat to UVM at the NCAA tournament game in front of Aleixs and her family, assuring them that no, we hadn’t matured since high school.
    And of course binge drinking. Ah binge drinking, how you keep us coming back for more! How you make even the most awkward conversation with former classmates tolerable, how you give us the courage to try and hook up with girls who had long since deemed us persona non grata during high school, how you give us the strength to use hard narcotics while sleeping under our parents’ roofs, and the clarity to have unprotected with the most dangerous of partners. Where would we be without you, binge drinking? May you never leave our side.

Thinking about Computac, MAIRK?!

One of the true highlights was the annual baseball game at Huntley Meadows, known to some of you as the time when we shamelessly discuss what it would be like to fuck one another while smoking cigarettes and rubbing our balls. Under warm autumn sun, we reviewed the pathetic shenanigans of the previous evening.

Alex, fatly: "What I don’t understand is why no one fucked (Hanover-girl-who-won’t-be-named-but-is -younger-and-at-some-point-stupid enough-to-make-out-with-me-when-she-was-hammered) last night? She has big tits."
Mike A, dumbly: Yeah. (that-same-girl-who-I-fucked-but-didn’t-tell-anyone-but-Mahler-about) needs to get fucked.
Alex: Yeah, totally dude, what the fuck?
Mike A: Yeah. That’s what I’m going to do at Christmas, I’m going to fuck her.
Alex: I like her tits.

Finer, Jewishly: I hate you guys.
Tim, gayly: Let’s just do anal with each other.

Alex gets some face time with Hank Greenberg

    As the weekend wound down, it was apparent what these little visits were really all about: the initial excitement of seeing old friends, followed by a predictable realization that we are a terribly unproductive and pathetic group when congregated. Fat, violent, and homophobic, it’s a wonder our parents let us come home at all. Or in many cases, live with them permanently.

"Te he he he he…"

Nice lipper, Mike, you fucking dirtface.

UPDATE: In the interest of science, we have added a poll to the bottom of this post.. Continue to discuss your selection in the comments section, but also log your official vote below. If this is your first time seeing this post, make sure to examine all the facts before voting. Or just vote for Noah. Either way.

ALEX: He took Noah last night…
MAX: Oh God
ALEX: And he’s taking Mike tonight.
MAX: UGH! Even Worse!

"What a joke!" Baker yelled in the early hours of last Sunday morning, "he didn’t even think about inviting me."

"I bet Mike and Gabe are rolling around under their seats in peanut shells sixty-nining." Tim exclaimed after Pedroia hit the clinching homer.

So who pisses you off more with his anointment as Gabe’s chosen one at Red Sox Bonanza 2007? Mike, with his yellow teeth, dirty clothes and stupid giggle? Or Noah, with his relentless arguments,  giant forehead and blatant public homophobia?

I HEARD that Noah managed to buy six beers at the bar a mere 10 minutes before Game Six started, charging all of it to Gabe’s credit card and forcing them to chug and run to make the  first pitch. Typical. When Gabe called me I heard the predicable crow of his ‘Scoma Caw in the background telling me "how cool I was for staying home and not going to the game." He spent the entire game trying to bum dips from the guys next to them, and after the big win celebrated by raw-dogging a member of the BU Equestrian team. Classy.

I know less of the Mike performance, only hearing that he was as nervous during the game as I was during my colonic. Gabe taking Mike to Game Seven is like Gabe taking his retarded older brother who used to buy us beer in high school but still isn’t sanctioned by the state to drive a car and even at 25 can’t be left home alone for the weekend.

It was just the right thing to do.

VOTE VOTE VOTE!

        Dave sent me a cache of videos from a CVS disposable camera illustrating just how sexy we are "late night" after 37 consecutive games of Beirut and four arguments about whether Gabe Kapler or Tom Brady looks better in the showers.  You know that time in the night, girls, when you wonder if maybe you should just stay and let your annoying friends go home alone because they are in a bad mood and they’re fat and they never get laid anyways? And then you realize you’re an insecure, characterless loaf who would do better going along so you can check Facebook and happily fart out your lunchtime Cobb salad?

This is how we celebrate.

The best Beirut partner of all time and the worst EMT of all time, together again.

        As we return from Summer Vacation, the drunk, all-male material continues to roll in. Our interns are working endlessly to sift through the piles of shit and uncover the truly worthless crap so that the eleven people coming to the site can give their dicks a five minute break between visits to YouPorn. This photo gallery recalls the rare collisions of Hurricanes Mike and Max during a late August fête in honor of Tim’s strength, wealth, and overwhelming gayness.  There were rare, but welcome appearances by Mahler, Draper, Richter, and the token chotch guy from UNH. There was the always unwelcome appearance by Noah, and SK was never missed.
        Interestingly enough it was Professor Saul who proved to be the most destructive: risking the Ainslie Street security deposit with a dented ceiling before exposing himself to the Italian neighbors. His plans of going Kosher after his previous self-destruction in Brooklyn had obviously gone awry.
       I framed the party like this during a post party review with a girl who had been overwhelmed by her first true experience with the Upper Valley Dirtbags: "Luckily that wasn’t a naked party because my friends would have been the ones standing in a circle with the fat, hairy stomachs and severely shrunken dicks, grinding their teeth and wondering why no girls were talking to them."

BIG THANKS TO D-SUTS: For letting me use his piece camera and then sending me all the photos. His disposable videos are next on the schedule!

Rip Road Rippers and their money lender out on the town.

AUGUST PARTY PHOTO GALLERY

Are those the famous paws we see?

You know it’s a good Saturday morning when you wake up butt naked in Tim’s bed, the last text in your sent items folder is “the thought of you coming makes me go nuts” and you’re selecting gems from Mairk’s homoerotic photoshoot staged at the Brook Hollow recycling area.
 
YUP! That’s a good Saturday! And, to top it all off, your alcoholic friends have united against your arch nemesis in his quest to be the biggest LaRouche in the Upper Valley by completely separating himself from a website HE founded and erasing it from his past like the land monster from Tim’s chemistry class. Next thing you know he’ll be go on a diet, start wearing sport coats, and teach at Dartmouth.

Well in celebration of this wonderful day, and the renewed calls for activity on our world-renowned website, we give you “Saul: A Poolside Photoshoot. With Appearances By Alex”

Saul specifically asked me to not put these pictures up on the site, but now that he refuses to talk to me until counseling, has been banned from my apartment by my female roommate and has no idea how to make changes to the site (even after being instructed on numerous occasions), there’s nothing he can do short of filing a lawsuit or committing a felony - both of which are well within the realm of possibility.

Enjoy, and hide your boners!

Saul Summer Photo Gallery

    As August approaches and the heat in attics climbs everywhere, the material from Marine Max only improves. In the video voicemail montage below, we get the constant peaks and valleys that results from the frightening combination of post-traumatic stress syndrome and living with Mike and Noah. Put your headphones on, crank the volume, and laugh away.

I’m pretty sure Max could go on a national stand-up tour and sell out arenas coast to coast. What would you rather see, a WNBA game, a Dispatch reunion tour to benefit Zimbabwe, or Max Uncensored?

Personally, I’d probably rather just look for undiscovered Cum on Eileen clips online, but I know other people would go to the show.